Package Work
by Herman Ferguson
Summary: A Private Detective with little luck finds himself taking a courier job to pay the bills. He finds himself wrapped up in a plot that threatens the whole Mojave, and with a 24-Karat chain of bad luck. An Adaptation of Fallout: New Vegas


I didn't want to take the job as courier for Mojave Express, but I didn't want to be in the Mojave, period. Nowhere else would take me though, that's the cost of being the best Private Dick in the wasteland. When you do your job well enough, that's sort of your own petard hoisted. This was something like out of the old Grognak books, anyway.

Jumped by goons before I could pull my piece and now I'm at the mercy of some thug in a weird get-up? If only I could get my hands free, they hadn't disarmed me, just-

"Truth is, the game was rigged from the start." The man said, he had been talking. Then a searing heat ripped into my head, and I could tell I was a goner. The second pain made me pass out, and I could still hear the radio.

" _Like a fella once said… Ain't that a kick in the head?"_

They didn't even give me a cigarette.

When I came too, there was a kindly old man sitting near me, and I was on top of an old cot. He started talking while I noted that I could move, and talk, and that I was alive.

"Hey…" I moaned. "Water?"

A hand guided an old bottle of water to my wasn't cold, but it was refreshing.

"Easy now, fella. You may not remember, but you were in a horrible accident."

"Two bullets to the head?" I asked, remembering the flashes of my last memories.

"Yes, indeed." He replied, with the kind of old joviality you got when your life had ended up turning out okay. He seemed a nice sort.

"I hate to break it to you, but it wasn't any sort of accident." I say, sitting up.

"What? So it happened on purpose? You aren't gonna convince me it was suicide." He said, and I raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Two bullets? You were buried." He said.

"Of course it wasn't suicide. Someone did this to me!" I say exasperatedly. "Some guy in a weird jacket and his goons."

"Well, how about we test to see if everything's in working order?" The man asked, and I complied. Odd ideas about suicide aside, he had obviously been skilled enough to save my life. I thanked him quickly, and he said not to worry about it. He said his name was Mitchell, and he put me through a bunch of tests, that said I was smart, but lacking in the Charisma department. I didn't think I looked much like a "Creepy Undertaker" but it would explain my skill with women. I was doubting the veracity of this vigor-tester.

However, it DID say I was a genius, so I may be able to trust the results.

I gave Mitchell my name when he asked, and after he had poked and prodded at my psyche, he gave me a Pip-Boy 3000, some of my recovered items, and a Vault suit to cover my modesty. I was just happy my old Hi-Power had kept some of its luster, even though any luster it had was after the word lack.

As I left, I walked towards a cross in the distance, where I had been sleeping before I was grabbed. I was eager to just sit down and see if anything I had was still buried at my old campsite when I was flagged down by the bouncer at the local Spittoon. She said her name was Sunny Smiles, and for all the mirth she put forward I was guessing the name was either sarcastic or a karmic joke on this dour woman.

She told me about a few errands she had to run and offered some small rewards if I helped her, as well as some training to survive in the wasteland. Admittedly, my survival skill was rather low, having lived in towns all through growing up and never really needing to rough it. I sheepishly admitted in what I hoped was a boyish manner that I could use the help.

At least, I hoped it was boyish. Creepy Undertaker, I suppose.

The first thing she did was lead me outside to see if I was any sort of a shot, and when she handed me her rifle, I promptly showed her I wasn't, at least not with a rifle. I pulled out my 9mm and blew away enough bottles for her to nod appreciatively and thanked my stars that I hadn't lost any of my trained skill. I was no deadeye, but I was no slouch either.

It was then I remembered I needed a smoke. I asked Smiles, and she shook her head and offered condolences, but her significant other made her quit. I sighed, and we began our trek. She said we needed to make sure the water source and the old fire pit hadn't become infested with the overgrown geckos that plagued seemingly every part of the West Coast I had been to. Nasty little buggers, if you couldn't handle yourself. The walk wasn't too far, but it was a trek. Unfortunately, the geckos were here.

She, in the hard leather armor, graciously let me, a man in a jumpsuit with a handgun, go first. Her dog, Cheyenne, looked up at me and crooked her head, before letting her tongue loll out of her mouth. I cursed quietly before popping off some shots at the trio of geckos around the first pump. I put three downrange, and two missed, but the third struck true, and a small red spot appeared on the chest of one of the geckos before it fell backwards.

"Aim for the head!" Smiles shouted. "Pelts go for more without damage!"

"I'm using a pistol woman!" I shouted back. "Those things are a bit farther than the intended range!"

I was running low on slugs too, I holstered the gun in my belt and swung up the rifle I had kept. She hadn't asked for it back, so I had hung onto it. I aimed and shot, winging one of the geckos on it's arm. The rifle was bolt-action, and I didn't have many bullets for it, so I was trying to be careful, and I put the gun down. It didn't kick out of my hands.

It didn't do that.

Unfortunately, my careful action had disarmed me, and before I could pull on the last gecko, its head exploded. Smiles walked up from behind me.

"Two out of three ain't bad for a guy who just got shot in the head." She said, in what I assumed was supposed to be a reassuring tone, but I wasn't having it.

"It's death for a guy with no back-up." I said. "Thanks for the help." She nodded, and I reloaded and retrieved the varmint rifle. She called it that, anyway. I had asked why, and she simply replied that it was called that because it was the type of rifle they used to hunt varmints. I compared both of our files. Hers was silenced, had a bigger magazine, and a fancy scope, and mine had none of those, but who am I to judge on fairness, I got a free gun.

We meticulously took down the next group of geckos at the second well, before Cheyenne took off like a rocket, and I heard a shout. I ran off after her, fast.

The third well had one of the town citizens, who was getting bitten and pawed at by geckos. She had only a rusty cleaver to defend herself against five geckos, and even though she got one, and Cheyenne and I took out the rest, she was dead on the ground when it was all said and done.

"Damn it!" I heard Sunny shout when she arrived. I took a look at her, she had a long scratch on her arm. "Another one attacked me after you ran off."

"I couldn't get here in time." I said, dumbly. Cheyenne loped over and leaned on my leg, and I felt helpless.

"It isn't your fault." Sunny said. She began to look over Cheyenne for any bites. "I keep telling them not to come alone, and they keep doing it." She sighs. She finds a bite mark on Cheyenne. "Maybe this time the lesson will stick. I just wish someone didn't need to die for that."

"Well," I remarked. "There's a vacant grave, I hear."


End file.
